Mad Season
by Axellia
Summary: Libby's friends always joked that she would be the first person to die in an apocalypse, yet somehow she was the only one left. The Walkers weren't going to stop her getting back to her family, and she certainly wasn't going to let an odd collection of survivors slow her down. So why was she starting to realise that sometimes you don't choose family: they choose you? S2 onwards
1. How Are You Still Alive?

_Although this is an OC story, which will follow the storyline of season 2 onwards, my aim is to try to fill in the blanks with what happened that you don't see. I currently have no plans for any OC pairing, but I learnt a long time ago to never say never._

_The Walking Dead doesn't belong to me. I wish it did, simply because at the rate the main characters are being killed off, I'm not sure how much longer Rick and Daryl will last... _

* * *

**Chapter One: How Are You Still Alive?**

_I feel stupid, but I know it won't last for long_  
_ And I've been guessin', and I coulda been guessin' wrong_  
_ You don't know me now, I kinda thought that you should somehow_  
_ Has that whole mad season got ya down?_

_Mad Season, Matchbox Twenty_

The heat wave showed no sign of letting up and even in the woods, the humidity was thick and verging on unbearable. Daryl, from his position crouched on the ground, took a moment to wipe the sweat that was beading on his forehead away with the back of his hand. Wiping it off on the back of his pants, he examined the ground in front of him. The further away from the stream he got, the drier the ground became, and the more difficult it became for him to track Sophia. Difficult, but not impossible.

A selfish part of him was glad that Sophia had gone missing. Not because he didn't like the kid – truth be told, he was pretty indifferent to her. It was more to the fact his head was still reeling from what had gone down at the CDC and this gave him something other than that to focus on. He certainly wasn't the smartest person in the group, but even he knew that the chances of anything other than _this_ being considered 'normal' was slipping further and further away. In a way, this kind of nomadic lifestyle was suiting him well. It was just the fact the dead didn't stay dead.

There were no footprints in front of him, but there was a broken branch – an indication that something had passed through. Recently, judging from the green of the broken limb. Deciding it wouldn't hurt to investigate, he mounted the horse, taking a moment to pull his crossbow from his shoulder and give it a glance to make sure it was loaded, more out of habit than necessity. He moved carefully along at a steady pace for several minutes, until a rustling caught his attention. The crossbow was up and he was taking aim in front of him in an instant, his body preparing itself for both fight or flight.

In the end, it needed neither. He lowered his bow a fraction as he realised the owner of the noise was a dog. A foxhound, if he wasn't mistaken. He eyed it warily. It didn't look wild, but he'd encountered far too many dogs of late that had become feral in their need to survive, that he wasn't going to take any chances. It wasn't until the dog whined and lay out on the ground in front of him, looking up at him with its mournful eyes, that he completely lowered the crossbow. "Hey boy," he greeted it gruffly. The dog was up in an instant and running over, wagging its tail. "What're yer doin' out here?" he asked it, leaning down and scratching him behind his chocolate brown ears.

The dog whined and took a couple of steps away from him, before stopping and looking over its shoulder at him. When Daryl stood there, it whined again. With a reluctant grunt, Daryl hoisted his crossbow over his shoulder and shook his head, following after the brown and white animal. It led him through the woods, away from where he had left the RV, but parallel to the interstate. Finally, after a while, he slowed, growling as he did so. Daryl had heard it too.

"Will you just die already!" an exhausted voice with an accent carried over to him. There was a swooshing sound, followed by a chink and a thud.

Silently, Daryl dismounted and the crossbow was back in his hands again as he crept forward, ready for the geeks, but also curious at the owner of the voice. As the trees thinned out, Daryl finally spotted its owner and nearly barked out a laugh at the absurd sight in front of him.

He was on the edge of a small clearing. In the centre was a small, one story wooden building – a hunting lodge that had fallen into disrepair. Around the bottom of it, arms stretched upwards, trying to get at the person on the roof, were two walkers, still in a somewhat human looking manner. The bodies of four others lay on the ground in various states – two with half of their heads removed lay motionless. The remaining geeks had been decapitated, but in a way that had their heads still groaning.

"Damnit!" the owner of the voice cried. Daryl's attention flicked to the woman and he once again had to try to bite back his laughter. She was tall. Probably close to six feet, but then again, she was wearing three inch heels. She wasn't stick thin like the woman in the group, and though she was overweight, she carried it well. He legs were long, shapely, and bare, leading up to a plump ass that was only just covered by a denim miniskirt – a skirt he was certain had the holes put into them before they'd left the store, rather than from general wear and tear. Up top she had a bright pink camisole on. Given the amount of cleavage it was presenting him with, it looked more suitable to a night out, than a trek through the woods. Hell, her whole appearance managed to exude way more class then he could scrub together, and she looked like she had stepped out of one of those bars that served those girly cocktails with stupid names than the type of bars he used to frequent.

If that wasn't enough, she was also wielding a katana, and it was also evident she had no idea what she was doing with it. He watched as she waited for a geek to get close to the building before swinging wildly in its general direction. She'd probably have had a little more luck with her aim if she tied her hair back instead of allowing it to fall in her face. "For crying out loud!" she exclaimed, again in the accent he couldn't place. She flung her hair out of her face and swung again, this time successfully decapitating a walker – although it wasn't the one she had been aiming for. She then proceeded to let out a horrified squeal, and visibly cringed.

This time Daryl did snort. It wasn't enough for neither the remaining walker, nor the woman to hear, but beside him the dog burst into life. It charged over at the building, barking at the dead. It caught the attention of the walker, distracting him from the woman. "Matilda!" she shouted at the dog. "I told you to get out of here! Shoo!"

Before Daryl could raise an eyebrow at the naming choice of an animal which was obviously male, the woman slipped, falling from the roof with a scream. The walker turned, already too close to her. Daryl reacted in an instant, firing an arrow. It hit its mark right in the back of the geek's head. The woman stopped moving long enough for the walker to fall to its knees, then slump down over her. Before Daryl could get close, she was screaming again. "Shuddup," he hissed, storming over.

"Get if off me!" she squealed, trying to push the dead weight from her.

"I said, keep it down!" he snapped, pulling the body off her.

She rolled over, scrambling to her knees. "Gross, gross, gross!" she exclaimed, shuddering again as she started wiping her arms and legs down.

Daryl stared in bewilderment at her. There was no trace of the walker on her. At best, she was covered in dirt and grass. "Will yer keep ye voice down before yer attact more of them fuckin' freaks?" he hissed at her.

She slowed her actions, staring at him with her eyes wide open. Close up, she was older than he first thought: though only early twenties maybe? And hell... she looked like she was about to start crying. He wasn't equipped for that kind of shit, and he busied himself with retrieving his arrow: no sense wasting them. With his booted foot on the back of the walker's neck, he grasped the arrowed and pulled. It left the head with a squelching noise.

"Oh god," he heard the woman mutter.

Daryl looked up in time for him to see her hurl. Rolling his eyes, he used the arrow to reload his crossbow, before slinging it back over his shoulder. He could sense the woman tense as he pulled a hunting knife out, and the next thing he knew, she had grasped at the fallen katana and was holding it out in front of her.

"I appreciate the help," she told him. "But you're not getting any of my things."

"What the hell makes ye think I'd want anythin'?" he asked her, eyeing her up and down. His gaze lingered on her cleavage. Up close, it was pretty impressive and thanks to the walker, he realised she was wearing one of those fancy lacy bras which shouldn't have surprised him given her overall appearance, yet still made him wonder, yet again, how the hell she was still alive. As he drank in her appearance he couldn't even begin to imagine what the hell she could possibly have that he could ever want.

Her eyes widened again. "I'm not sleeping with you either!" she squeaked, hastily straightening her top before making sure her sword was again, pointing at him.

"What the fuck?" he cried. He wasn't going to deny that for a fleeting moment, the image of burying his face in her breasts had crossed his mind, but there was no way he was about to do what the fuck she was implying he was. "I jus' saved yer life!"

"Like I said, I appreciate it, but it doesn't warrant you sleeping with me!"

"What the fuck makes ye think I wanna sleep with ye?"

"You just said you didn't want any of my things," she responded.

"That don't mean I wanna take sex as payment!" he snapped, angrily.

"You wouldn't be the first person who said that then tried anyway," she retorted.

"With the way ye dress, I can understand why," he informed her.

The woman's mouth fell open. "It shouldn't matter if I was parading around in my underwear, or if I was in a burka. I should be able to dress anyway I want without worrying that any guy I meet is going to want to rape me."

Daryl stared at her disbelief. He had no fucking clue what a burka was, and regardless of the fact that he had no intention of having sex with her, if she was to parade around in her underwear – which let's be honest, she wasn't far from being – it wasn't exactly giving off the same message as what she was saying. He shot her a glare, then took a few steps from her.

"What are you d-" she started to ask, but stopped as his hunting knife sank into one of the still animated heads lying on the ground. "Oh god," she moaned. He barely had chance to glare at her before he could hear her throwing up again.

He ignored her, and finished off the other head before returning to her. "Will ye put that damn thing away?" he asked her, sheathing his own knife. "Trust me, darlin', ye ain't my type."

They glared at each other for a while, until the dog came and settled down beside her. It seemed to give her the assurance she needed and she reached over her shoulder for the sword's sheath. Daryl watched as she struggled to put it away, again wondering how she had managed to survive this long. "Thank you," she eventually mumbled.

Daryl shrugged. There was another moment of awkward silence before she straightened the sword behind her, correcting the strap so that it ran through her cleavage. It wasn't until she winced that he realised the leather strap was resting on bright red skin. He frowned, glancing at her arms and face. He had assumed that the colouring had come from the exertion but on closer inspection, he realised it was sunburn. "What the fuck are ye doing out here?" he finally asked her, unable to contain his complete confusion at the woman. "You ain't from 'round here, are ye?"

She turned her back on him, making her way around the side of the house to where there was a small porch. "What gave it away?" she asked him.

"What didn't?" he shrugged, watching as she grasped at the porch railings and pulled herself up. "What the fuck are ye doin' now?" he asked her. He was fairly confident that there was absolutely nothing in his life until this moment that had him as confused as he was now.

"Getting my stuff," she told him, giving him a look that implied that was obvious. "Do you mind?" she asked him, turning her attention back to her balancing act, and trying to find a foothold on the building's wall to pull herself up onto the roof.

Daryl continued to stare at her. _Do you mind?_ She wanted help? He stared at the heels... the help she wanted was something he clearly couldn't provide her with. The woman needed several hours with an overpriced head doctor. He blinked, and took a step forward. Silently, he placed his hands on her thighs, incredibly surprised to discover that they were as smooth as silk. She let out a shriek, he glanced up, realising that not only did the lack of hair extend further up than he expected, but the lacy bra had matching underwear and there wasn't much of it. Before he could see it coming, her heeled shoe had connected with the side of his head, and sent him flying.

"What the fuck are ye doin'?" he bellowed, staggering in his attempt to right himself, clutching at his head.

"What the fuck are _you_ doing?" she yelled back at him, pulling herself up onto the roof.

"Ye asked for my help!"

"I asked you to back up!" she shot back at him. "Have you seen the length of this skirt?"

"Pretty fuckin' hard not to," he grunted. "Did ye miss the apocalypse that's happening around yer?"

"Pretty fucking hard not to," she shot back at him. She sighed and sat down on the edge of the roof, taking care to cross her legs in a lady-like way. "It's hot," she muttered by way of explanation, scraping her hair back and wrapping up into a knot, holding it in place on the top of her head.

"It's Georgia in summer," Daryl shrugged.

"Yeah, well I've still not adjusted to it," she shrugged, releasing her hair so it fell back against her back. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"And the heels?" he asked, nodding at her feet.

"I don't have anything else with me."

"Ye could go barefoot," he suggested.

She looked horrified at the thought. "On the roads, in the evening or early morning, maybe," she muttered.

"Ye kiddin' me?" he asked her disbelief.

She stared at him, taking the time to consider him, like he had her, and sighed. "You wouldn't understand."

"So where were ye headin?" he asked, still curious.

She shrugged. "Home." At the blank look he gave her, she shrugged again. "England. I'm heading to Atlanta to catch a plane."

Daryl snorted. "Ye can fly?"

She pulled a face. "No. I'm going to buy a ticket and let American Airlines get me out of this hell hole."

That was it... That was all Daryl needed and he burst out laughing.


	2. Good Shoes Could Save You This Time

**Chapter Two: Good Shoes Could Save You This Time**

All this attitude with no history  
All this anger when you're attacking me  
Got a lot to learn and you need to know  
That your time is up kid let it go

Maybe someday you will grow  
And maybe someday you will know  
Maybe someday you will end  
These fears and go

_Can't Catch Tomorrow (Good Shoes Won't Save You This Time)_, Lost Prophets

His laughter irritated her. No, that was wrong. A chuckle would have irritated her. These were full-blown guffaws and frankly it was insulting. She glared at him – something which seemed to be completely ineffective – so she decided enough was enough. She scrambled up and reached for her satchel. Carefully, she lowered it onto her sunburnt shoulders, unable to stop herself from wincing, positioning it more to her front so that it wouldn't get in the way of the sword.

Below her the laughter eased off slightly as she felt her rescuer watching her again. Summoning up the last of her willpower, Libby forced herself not to look at him and instead reached out for her case. With the extendable handle out, she dragged it to the edge and started to lower it down. The laughter started up again so abruptly, that she dropped the case to the ground.

"How the hell are ye still alive?" the man asked her, clutching at his side.

Again, Libby ignored him, swinging herself around and lowering herself back down. She turned around and glared at him. "Bite me," she growled at him. She leant over, snatched at her case and began storming off. Without looking back she realised that Matilda was at her ankles.

"Where're ye goin'?" he called after her.

"Atlanta," she muttered, keeping her attention to the uneven ground in front of her.

There was a flurry of movement and she sensed the guy following her, his tread surprisingly light. "Ye say Atlanta?" he asked her.

"And?" she asked, keeping her gaze on her path.

"Atlanta's overrun with them freaks," he told her.

"I don't care," she informed him. "I only need to get to the airport."

"The airport?" he repeated again. "Where ye planning on flying?"

"Hawaii," she responded deadpan. "Like I told you. Home: England," she elaborated with a slight shake of her head.

There was another burst of laughter. "Well, shit!" he exclaimed. "I never pegged ye for no pilot."

Libby stopped and whirled around. "Of course I'm not a pilot. I'm going to catch a plane and get the heck out of here."

He stared at her, wide eyed. And then he burst out laughing.

That was it. Libby saw red. She dropped the handle to her case, took the two small steps towards the infuriating man, and shoved him as hard as she could. "Will you stop laughing at me!" she yelled at him, less of a request and more of a demand.

The shove barely affected him – if anything it made him laugh harder. "How the hell are ye still alive?" he asked.

Libby let out a cry of frustration, once again turned on her heel, and collecting her case, continued storming off. It might have been slightly more impressive if her heel hadn't sunk into the ground and caused her to stumble. She ignored the continued laughter and carried on.

"There ain't any planes flyin'," he called after her. "Ain't ye noticed the lack of them above us?"

Libby narrowed her eyes and continued out of the clearing, leaving him behind. She walked for a while, quietly seething. Okay, so he looked like he had been brought up in the outback of beyond, and yes, maybe she was a _little_ out of her element, but she _was_ still alive. And who exactly was he to judge? She dragged the case through the long grass, struggling slightly with its heavy weight and the fight the grass was giving it.

Libby paused for a moment, trying to work out where she was. That damn hick had her all muddled. She spun around, trying to get her bearings. When that failed, she closed her eyes, trying to picture which side of the shack she'd walked away from, finally settling on 'completely the wrong direction'. With a sigh, she turned back on herself, hoping that god-annoying man had disappeared. It wasn't until she got back into the clearing – happily noting that he had gone – that she realised his annoyance had been replaced by itchy feet and ankles.

The soles of her feet were already sore and covered in blisters. The shoes she was wearing certainly weren't designed for much more than an evening of bar-hopping, but a hike across two states? At least the heels had miraculously stayed intact despite the uneven terrain. It was the tops of her feet that itched – and her ankles too. _Great_. Combined with the sunburn she was feeling pretty miserable.

Her eyes automatically flicked down to her silver watch. The battery had died several weeks ago, but she couldn't bring herself to part with it. With a sigh, she turned her gaze upwards to the sky. The sun was still pretty low, and as far as she could tell, that meant it was still morning. Libby frowned, squinting at the blue sky. Maybe she hadn't noticed any planes for a while, but that didn't mean anything, right? America was huge – it wasn't possible for all of it to be under a flight path. She shook her head and raked a hand through her hair. Under no circumstance was she about to believe that hick. No, she would get to Atlanta, and she would find a flight back home – even if it meant maxing out her emergency credit card, because if this didn't warrant an emergency, she didn't know what did.

She was brought to the present by the increasing itchiness of her ankles. Regardless of whether there were flights or not, she wasn't going to make it there with her legs distracting her like they were. She glanced down at her four legged companion and wrinkled her nose. "You think you can do that water thing you do, Matilda?" she asked her.

The dog cocked her head and whined, before trotting off just in front of her, leading her back where they had come from. Libby followed the dog for some time, trying to keep her attention on the path in front of her, dragging her case, and of course, looking out for the zombies. Finally, she could hear the sound of running water. Unfortunately, she quickly realised, the bank down to it was far too steep – more of a cliff face than a gentle incline – and even if she wasn't wearing the most impractical pair of shoes, she wouldn't be able to climb down there. She followed the bank of the water downstream, allowing Matilda to keep leading her, hoping that the blind trust she was placing in an animal that didn't even belong to her would pay off again.

It did. There was a track down the banking. Still steep, but manageable. Well, manageable without lugging a pull-along suitcase. The need to address her feet was greater than the need to carry the case down, and then back up. Quickly, Libby crouched next to the case and pulled out her second set of shoes. Like the ones she was wearing, they too had three inches of heel on them, but these had a wedged sole and offered slightly more grip, even if the strapped sandal was more uncomfortable. Taking care not to let her bare feet touch the ground, she swapped her shoes, wincing as the straps criss-crossed over irritated skin.

Lord knows what she had been walking through, but the skin was red, inflamed, and, Libby cringed, starting to welt up. The sight of the welts alone was enough to make her nauseous, and Libby found herself wondering, for the umpteenth time exactly what that hick had: _how the hell was she still alive?_ Back at university, her friends had constantly teased her, telling her that she would never survive the end of the world. It had been no secret that she couldn't cook – instead she had survived on Pot Noodles and mircrowave meals.

Leaving the case where it was, though taking the time to move a few branches and leaves, she made sure both her satchel and her sword were secure. "Come on, Matilda," she muttered to the dog. Once again, seemingly understanding her, it led the way down the banking, waiting when needed to make sure Libby was right behind him.

The water was dirtier than Libby would have liked – not that she would have taken her shoes off anyway, but the relief of the cool water over her inflamed ankles was instant. For a fleeting moment, Libby had the urge to strip off and submerge her burning shoulders in there too, but Matilda's low growl soon put a stop to that. As quietly as she could, Libby made her way back to the bank, drawing her sword as she did. She smelt it before she saw it, swinging wildly, as was her style. She the blade sliced almost all the way through the neck. But not enough. Whilst it did fall to its knees, it continued snapping at her, arms reaching for her.

"Darn it," Libby mumbled, in an attempt to quell her swirling stomach. She brought her sword down on it again. This time, it stopped moving. Libby glanced at her canine companion about to put the sword away, when she realised something else had the dog's attention. It took her half a moment to realise that Matilda wasn't growling. She didn't put the weapon away, instead keeping it at the ready for another hap-hazard attack, although the dog had yet to fail her. The two of them continued upstream until Libby finally found the source of the dog's distress.

She didn't see him at first. It was his foul language that she heard. "Stop being such a pussy." Libby's eyes darted to the opposite embankment. Where she had looked down and decided it was too steep to walk down, the hick who had helped her out earlier had evidently decided it wasn't too steep for him to climb up. Although, judging from his slow progress he wasn't doing very well with his climb.

Libby rolled her eyes. If he wanted to climb, let him climb. Besides, he was too busy with the climb above him that had she spoken up, he probably would have lost his footing and fallen. And it looked like a long way to fall. Painful too.

This time, it was her own hearing that caught the snapping branch. She whirled around, spotting the walker a few feet from the water. Libby chewed at her lip. It hadn't seen her yet, but she'd left one alone earlier, and that was how she had ended up surrounded on the rooftop. Surely it would be easier to kill them one at a time now, then later when they returned with a half dozen or more friends. "What the heck?" she muttered rhetorically under her breath.

Like always, it took a couple of hacks before the walker fell. The effort left her all hot and bothered. She still wasn't used to the heat or the humidity, and frankly, she had no intention of _trying_ to become adjusted to it. It was a loud splash which had her jump out of her longing for home, and she glanced back towards the river, knowing as she spotted him lying there, exactly what had caused it.

Libby frowned. He wasn't getting up. She took a couple of steps towards him, then realised his chest was still moving up and down. Before she could get any closer, Matilda was growing again. Libby whirled around. There were two of them. So much for the theory of killing one would lead to a lack of zombie friends... She gritted her teeth and sent one last glance over her shoulder. The hick was too dazed to be moving much – and wouldn't draw attention to himself, provided he stay still. Turning her attention to the two walkers, she lunged.

Miraculously, the first actually fell with the first swipe. The second one was proving more troublesome, but she too fell with a dull thud. By the time Libby returned to river, the hick was still unconscious, but she'd been wrong about him drawing little attention. There was a walker trying to gnaw at his boot. He seemed to realise at the same time as she did, kicking it away and scrambling for his crossbow.

Forgetting about stealth, the water, and even the fact she was wearing the most impractical pair of shoes a person could wear in this situation, she charged. With water splashing everywhere, she reached for the zombie, yanking it from off of the hick and swinging her sword. The head went flying, landing on the ground between them, its mouth aimlessly chomping at the air.

With a growl, the man, grabbed at a branch and began hammering at the head. "If yer gonna kill it, do it right. Through. The. Head," he grunted with each blow.

"You're welcome," she said, blinking in surprise.

"What for?" he asked. "Finishin' off the job for yer" He glared down at the now unrecognisable head.

"Holy mackerel," she muttered, her eyes widening as she realised there was an arrow poking through his side.

He finally looked at her, his eyes quickly flashing between confusion, panic then determination. It took Libby a moment to work out what he was going to do. "Don't!" she yelped as he grasped at the arrow. He paid no attention to her pleads, instead yanking it with a loud roar. Again he reacted quicker than her brain could: she was expecting him to address the wound, but he lunged for his crossbow. "I was helping," she hurriedly tried to explain, as he fumbled with loading his weapon.

With another roar, he threw himself at her, ignored her scream, and pushed her to the side. She fell, with another scream – this one in pain, rather than terror – and landed on the uneven ground, all her weight falling on her hands. She glanced back in time to see a walker fall to the ground beside her.

He stood over her, panting at the exertion. "Yer welcome," he grunted before falling to his knees.

Libby stared at walker next to her, mouth open. Then her body and mind finally communicated and she started to scramble backwards, away from both bodies. Or she tried to. Pressure on her hands and feet but a drastic stop to that. "Oh, god," she muttered, blinking back the tears before she wiped her hands against her shirt, biting her lip against the pain. She switched her attention to her right ankle. It was already swollen, but hidden under the already red, welt covered skin, she couldn't tell if it was broken or not – just that it hurt like hell when she tried to touch it. A flurry of movement had her attention focused on the guy next to her as he pulled his over-shirt off and pushed it against his wound. "You'd do better if you took your vest off," Libby told him.

"Ye'd do better if ye took those damn shoes off," he retorted, nodding at the ankle Libby was clutching.

He wasn't wrong, but she wasn't about to wander around barefoot. She remained quiet instead. He didn't look like the sort of person who would understand her. Instead, she gritted her teeth and focused on trying not to cry out in pain as she removed some bits of dirt from her hands.

"Son of a bitch was right," she heard him mutter.

"Who?" she asked, looking up just in time to see him retrieve his arrow from the walker's head. "Oh god," she groaned, feeling her stomach lurch. At her reaction, he shot her a somewhat disgusted look, and drew a hunting knife. Libby's eyes widened – something which he didn't miss. He rolled his own eyes back at her and turned to the walker, slicing his ear off, then proceeded to thread it on a string. "What are you doing?" Libby asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. When he sliced off the second, Libby couldn't hold her stomach in any longer. "Why?" she mumbled.

He put the necklace on and glowered at her. "Ye seen a kid 'round here?" he asked her, bending over to pick up a ragdoll.

"No," Libby responded, shaking her head.

"Ye see her, tell her Daryl says to head back to the highway," he instructed her, starting a climb back up the steep embankment.

Libby blinked. "You know there's an easier route down stream?" she told him.

He grunted. "Then you take it."

Libby stood, wincing at the effort, and reclaimed her sword. That was exactly what she was going to have to do. Casting him one last glance, she found herself a sturdy branch which was long enough to carry her weight, and set off back the way she came. Nightfall was coming, and with her ankle as it was, her best bet was probably back up on the roof of that building.

It took her a long time to get back to her case, but thankfully she hadn't encountered any walkers in the process. The last thing she expected was to encounter Daryl again. He was staggering through the woods. He looked awful. In fact, if it wasn't for the fact Matilda wasn't growling at him, her first thought had been that he had turned. "Daryl?" she called softly.

"Piss off, Merle," he grunted.

"Who the hell is Merle?" she asked, hobbling over to him. He cast her a sideways glare, but continued walking. Libby frowned. She still had her branch supporting her in one hand, and the case in the other, but somehow, she was moving easier than he was. "Let me help you," she started.

Daryl whirled around, striking her head. "I said, piss off, Merle," he roared.

Libby stumbled, dropping her support stick and her case, and falling awkwardly on her already injured ankle. The cry of pain got lodged in her throat as she blacked out.

* * *

_LuckIsnt-GoodEnough -_ _My first reviewer :) Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy._


	3. Safe, But Not Home

**Chapter Three: Safe, But Not Home**

_We're all fighting growing old _  
_In the hopes of a few minutes more _  
_To get on St. Peter's list _  
_But you need to lower your standards _  
_'Cause it's never getting any better than this_

Rat a Tat, Fall Out Boy

Rick ran to the edge of the forest, his gun drawn, ready to shoot the walker before it made it any further. He came to a stop, six feet away from it and frowned. The walker looked like... Daryl.

"That's the third time ye've pointed that thing at my head. Ye gonna pull the trigger, or what?" Daryl snapped at him.

Rick lowered his gun, allowing the feeling of relief to spread over him. It was just Daryl. No sooner had he thought it, there was a crack of gunfire and Daryl fell to the ground. "No!" he yelled back at the RV behind him. "No! Stop!" he dropped down beside Daryl at the same time as Shane did, relieved to see he was still alive, the bullet grazing his head. Together, he and Shane pulled Daryl upright and began dragging him back to the farm.

"Oh my god, is he dead?" Andrea asked, running over.

"Unconscious," Rick replied. "The bullet just grazed him."

"Look at him," Glen cried. "What the hell happened to him? He's wearing ears."

Rick glanced up at the farm. Hershel and the others were already outside and making their way down to them. Whatever had happened, this was not something that should be shared with him. They were already on shaky ground with the farmer.

"Guys!" T-Dog called behind him. Rick turned, glancing back, first spotting the doll T-Dog was holding up, then an actual canine behind him. "Isn't this Sophia's?" The dog barked, causing T-Dog to look back at it. "Where the hell did that come from?" he asked.

"T-Dog, you take Daryl back to the house. Glen, you come with me," Rick said, handing Daryl over.

"You want me to come too?" Andrea offered.

Rick shook his head. "No, me and Glen will be fine." The look she gave him told him that she knew the reason she wasn't coming was because she'd just done exactly what he'd told her not to, but she nodded, hurrying off after the others.

"Just what has Daryl been doing?" Glen muttered as he and Rick followed the dog back into the woods. Rick didn't answer. It was a valid question, but the answer would have to wait until he could ask Daryl himself. The dog led them only a short way into the woods, stopping by a colourful heap on the floor. "Is that a girl?" Glen asked him.

"Looks like," Rick agreed, drawing his gun. His gut said that the dog would be reacting differently if it was a walker, but the woman was groaning and her movements on the ground were a little too disjointed for him to put the gun away yet. "You alright?" he called over as he slowly made his way to her. There was a flurry of movement and she was up on her feet, a sword out in front of her, then as quickly as she got up, she was back down again with a cry of pain. From the looks of things, her ankle was the cause of it, but there was a nasty looking cut on the side of her head which was most likely why she seemed so disorientated. "We're not going to hurt you," he told her as she struggled to get back up again. He saw an opening and took it dashing in and knocking her sword away. She looked at him, her eyes taking a moment to focus on his face, then she slumped to the ground.

"She alright?" Glen called over to him.

Rick studied her. His first impression told him very loudly that no, she shouldn't be alright. Hell, she shouldn't be alive. Actually, his first impression was more like he was hallucinating. Individually, the things he saw made sense: a medium sized, pull along suitcase decorated like a giant Union Jack; an oriental looking sword – a katana if he remembered rightly; a hunting dog; a fold away camping cot; and a pretty college girl dressed like she was on her way back from a night out. But put all that together, and his brain was trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. If it wasn't for the dirt, blood, swollen ankle, and, unless he was mistaken, the reaction to poison oak that she was experiencing, well he would be questioning his own sanity.

"Rick?" Glen asked again, joining his side.

"Let's get her back to the farm," Rick told him. "Can you manage her case?"

"Can you manage _her?"_ Glen asked him, wide eyed.

Rick frowned, not sure he agreed with Glen's implications. She was tall, and sure she wasn't as slim as Lori, or Andrea, or any of the women in the camp, but there was nothing wrong with her curves. "I'll be fine," he assured him, returning his gun to its holster, before scooping her up in his arms.

They were halfway back, when his wife met them. "What have you got there?"

"Found her in the woods, just behind where Daryl came out. Is he alright?"

Lori nodded. "They took him into the house. Hershel is looking after him." She gave the girl another look. "You're bringing her in?"

"She's hurt," Rick told her. "We can't just leave her out there."

"But look at her!" Lori exclaimed.

"I'm not leaving her out there," Rick repeated, firmly. He carried on walking, taking her into the house.

. . .

After getting the girl settled in a spare room under Hershel's instruction, Rick went in to see how Daryl was getting on. "I found it washed up on the creek bed right there," Daryl was telling Shane, pointing at the map.

Rick glanced back at his friend. "Cuts the grid almost in half." Shane merely raised an eyebrow.

"Yer welcome," Daryl muttered, keeping the pressure applied to his head wound.

With a sigh, Rick turned back to Hershel. "How's he looking?"

"I had no idea we would be going through antibiotics so quickly," Hershel grunted. "The girl looks like she's gonna need 'em too."

"Ye been to check on her?" Daryl asked.

"No, I've been here treatin' to you," Hershel informed her. "Had her put in Beth's room," he said, looking pointedly at Rick.

"We'll move her out with us," Rick assured him. He turned his attention to Daryl. "So where'd she fit into all this?"

"She don't," Daryl told him. "Found her stuck on a roof, surround by geeks."

"Did you get her name?" Rick pressed.

Daryl shrugged, then winced at the effort. "Didn't get anythin' other than a laugh. Have ye seen what she's wearin'?"

Behind him, Shane made a noise in the back of his throat, and Rick glanced back at him. "It's a little impractical, I'll give you that, but we don't know what her story is."

"How 'bout you find that out while I ask Daryl here about my horse?" Hershel nodded. "Way I understand it, she was by herself carrying a sword."

Rick nodded, catching the implication, and left the room. He found Lori sat down outside the room she was in and walked over. "She up?"

Lori shook her head. "I've just checked on her. She's still out. How's Daryl?"

"He's alright. I'm going to go sit with Carl for a bit: let Hershel see to her first."

Lori got to her feet, just as Shane stepped out of the room. "Hershel thinks it's pointless to keep going out there. Not after this."

Rick gave him a surprised look. "You'd quit now? Daryl just risked his life to bring back the first hard evidence that we've had," Rick told him in a hushed tone as he walked back to Shane.

Shane shrugged. "That's one way to look at it. The way I see it, Daryl almost died today for a doll."

"Yeah, I know how you see it," Rick muttered. "Has it escaped your attention that we just found a girl out in them woods?"

"That girl is a bit older then Sophia," Shane retorted. Rick gave Shane a disgusted look and walked away.

. . .

It was a good hour before Lori poked her head around the door. "Hershel has done with her. She's still out though. He thinks she's got a concussion."

Rick nodded, staring at his son thoughtfully. "You want to take over?" he asked Lori. "I suppose I should see what I can find out about her."

Lori nodded and walked into the room. "Are you sure she's alright? We don't know a thing about her, and this is another person around Carl."

"I know," Rick agreed. "And I'm going to talk to her now. If I think she's dangerous, then I'll ask her to leave, but I don't think she is." He rose to his feet, stepping back to allow his wife to pass. He gave her a reassuring smile, placing his hand on her shoulder, before leaving and entering Beth's bedroom. He quietly shut the door and then shook his head. He took a breath and exhaled slowly, turning his attention to the girl in the bed.

As Lori said, she was still unconscious, but instead of looking peaceful as she rested, she was frowning. He wouldn't have been surprised if she hadn't been able to sleep much, considering the fact that her only companion seemed to be a dog. He gave the dog a nod. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked it, indicating to the chair.

The dog cocked his head and whined, but allowed Rick to sit. It got up from and walked over to him, resting his head in its lap. "Hey there, fella," Rick muttered, stroking its head as it looked up at him with big, baleful eyes.

"Matilda," a soft voice croaked.

Rick looked over at the bed and realised the girl was awake. "Is that you, or the dog?"

"The dog," she winced as she tried to sit up.

"I wouldn't," Rick suggested, just as softly. "You took a pretty nasty bang to the head."

She took in a deep breath and allowed herself to relax into the pillow. "Is this heaven?" she asked quietly.

Rick gave her a wry smile. "Very far from it."

"Where am I?" she asked.

"Safe," he told her.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, Rick thought she had gone back to sleep, but then she spoke again. "Safe, but not home."

"Sounds like you're a long way from home."

She gave him a look which said she'd heard that one a thousand times before, but rather than commenting, she just sighed. "Getting closer every day."

"Where are you heading?" he asked her.

She considered him, her eyes travelling over him warily, until they came to a stop on his badge. "You're a cop?" she said.

It was more of a statement then a question, but Rick nodded anyway. "Yes, m'am."

She pulled a face. "Atlanta," she told him.

He tried to keep his face impassive, but as his mind replayed his experiences and her eyes grew wider, he knew he was failing. "What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," she replied after a moment's pause. "Libby."

He took a deep breath, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. "Libby, we've been in Atlanta. There's nothing and nobody left there."

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then shook her head, firmly. The action had her blinking rapidly at the dizziness that washed over her, but she looked him firmly in the eye. "I don't want to be in the centre of the city. I just want to get to the airport. I know it sounds crazy, but I've heard that there's still a chance that there are limited flights getting out of the country. I need to get back to my family. And unless you're keeping me prisoner here..." she trailed off.

She stared at him with such dogged determination, that he simply nodded. "Nobody is keeping you prisoner," he assured her, surprised at the relief that crossed her face. "If you want to leave, that's fine. Nobody will stop you, but Hershel says you've had a pretty nasty knock to the head. He also thinks you've sprained your ankle. Would you at least consider staying here until you're capable of outrunning the walkers if you need to?"

He was surprised that the offer sounded as insistent as it did. Truth was, he kind of agreed with his wife: the girl was one extra mouth to feed. Yet, as he said it, he realised that not only was he offering her the help that had been offered to him, but also her chances of survival without it were as bleak as his had been when he'd been trapped in the tank. Sure, he didn't rate her chances of returning to her family that highly – especially if they were back in England as she was implying – but he didn't think would ever see his again, and here they were all together, all safe.

She frowned, allowing her hand to wander over the bedsheets. "Just until I can walk properly again," she conceded. "I'm not stupid enough to think that flights were as regular as they used to be, but I can't risk missing one, just because of a twisted ankle."

"The man who owns this farm, Hershel, has been good enough to let us stay on his land, but this bed is only temporary. We have space in our camp for you to set up your tent," he said.

She nodded. "Cot," she corrected him. "But thank you." She looked around the room once more, before returning her attention to him. "But it's only temporary, of course."

He returned the nod. "It's as temporary as you want it to be," he assured her.

* * *

_I hoped to update last week, but I was busy seeing the sights of Rome. Apologies for the delayed post, but as I can't stop writing for this at the moment, I think they should be fairly steady for a while. _

_So, first thoughts of Libby? It'll be a few more chapters before we start to see anything of her background, but I'm curious as to what you think her story is._

_Finally, lots of thanks to bluetard and Rebel29 for the alert adds!_


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